


Lights Eat Me Alive

by bladeCleaner



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Politics, Character(s) of Color, Club AU, Clubbing, F/M, Immigration & Emigration, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, POV Character of Color, Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5814727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladeCleaner/pseuds/bladeCleaner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He enters. A cavernous, epileptic shock of a room greets him; a gathering of beat and body, and he blinks once, twice. Every light cuts the mass into an illuminated beam, a thousand bulbs, moving and laughing and shrieking and pouring their drinks. A sea of debauchery. </p><p>The music is too loud and burrows itself into his skull and he weaves through the crowd until he reaches holy grail: the bar. There is only one other person.</p><p>Fenris and Hawke meet at a club, then at school, orbiting each other and colliding constantly. Touches on modern slavery in present day America, immigration issues, etc. Touches a lot on modern politics, because unlike every other modern AU seen here, not gonna ignore the fact that Hawke is indeed a first-generation immigrant, as is nearly all of the original Kirkwall gang. I'm salty about whitewashed college AUs, fandom. Fight me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dance that body electric

**Author's Note:**

> BUT FIRST, BEFORE ALL THE EXCITING RACIST MICROAGGRESSIONS, LET'S CONCENTRATE ON: CLUBBING.
> 
> Songs (I highly recommend you listen to them as you read this):  
> Somebody by Fenech Soler  
> Feel The Same by Battle Tapes

There is gold on her lips and she is painted a perfect shade of her skin. Her earbuds are still on; a middle finger to club etiquette.  
  
The club is like any club you've ever been in the city - the lights are dim, the bartenders are hot, the DJ, if male, is not playing any of the songs you like unless someone comes up to his ear and tells him just play the shit everyone knows.  
  
The clock shows some absurd hour. Some absurd hour but it's not pre-dawn yet, so no one is here. Everyone is smoking and drinking, and the dance floor is still lackluster, guys shuffling and some girls with their eyes closed looking more like they're waiting to be cast in a horror film. She isn't feeling charitable tonight, but then again this mosaic of a thousand mirrors is not meant to be kind, it is meant to be sharp.  
  
She is grinning at the door when her friends come in. They hug, scream into each other's ears, each of them suffused by that bond - the bond clubgirls all have, when they've texted each other the bus numbers to the club, and called each other as they sweat over the sink powdering their foundation and slipping out the door and twisting before it slams closed like a flyer drifting through the streets. They are all voice, now, shrieking over the loud house music at the bartender while she continues grinning. She still hasn't taken off her earbuds, but she's paused her own mix, waiting.  
  
_Not yet._  
  
She and her friends knock back some drinks and the bold brave among them starts to dance, even though everyone's told her she does it funny but in a way that makes everyone want to be like her. May watches her, envious but waiting.  
  
Then there's a shift in the air as soon as the door opens again and the warmth leaks in like a sieve - the smokers tumble back in, some grinning and wincing as they re-enter. The club starts to key up with her, the vibrations under her skin a constant buzz and the music flies higher and higher, syncing but not quite there yet, and she waits, even as she's tugged by all her friends to join them on the filling dance floor.  
  
She sits by the bar still, the only one. Everyone has flooded onto the empty space.  
  
She's mouthing to her friends, to anyone watching, to herself; _wait for it, wait for it._ Gleeful and hungry. _Wait for it._  
  
—  
  
He tugs down on his sleeves. He's in a dark blue button-down, sleeves rolled down, but he needs something to do with his hands. He hasn't ever been in one of these, his experience limited to television. He's meeting a potential client there, though. His hands itch. He hasn't done a job in a while - and this is strange and new, not some backalley rendezvous.  
  
He knows no one in the area, aside from his contacts, and school begins in a week.  
  
Regardless, he braces against the knife-edge of the wind tonight - his first club. His first college party experience. He wants to strangle the laughter that threatens to heave itself up into his throat.  
  
The pinpoint, blatant staring of those lingering outside unfurls all over his body until he looks at the perpetrators and eases his expression into default menace; then they're quickly coughing, cigarette butts being thrown, coughs echoing through the night mixing in with the backbeat of the club's music. Wise choice.  
  
—  
  
The floor is stacked; the DJ has already been dragged into submission and she hooks her mouth upward. The song - something atrocious - fades out, and the song that starts has a good beat, and the notes spiral into techno-synth filler, waiting to truly begin.  
  


_Go, laughing_  
  
_Circle like a bird of prey_  
  
_And it hides the darkness_  
  
_Take a shot and walk away_  
  
_All I need_  
  
_Is a smile forever_  
  
_I could be_  
  
_More than the face of a stranger_  
  
—  
  
He enters. A cavernous, epileptic shock of a room greets him; a gathering of beat and body, and he blinks once, twice. Every light cuts the mass into an illuminated beam, a thousand bulbs, moving and laughing and shrieking and pouring their drinks. A sea of debauchery.  
  
The music is too loud and burrows itself into his skull and he weaves through the crowd until he reaches holy grail: the bar. There is only one other person.  
  
_And nobody, nobody, nobody, nobody_  
  
_Has to know that you care_  
  
_That I'm_  
  
_Somebody, somebody, somebody_  
  
_Something more than thin air_  
  
Despite the foreign waters, he knows places such as this - he orders the special, whatever it is - though he just wants to drown himself in a good Cabernet right now. He curls his hand around the glass with ease and drowns himself in it. The bartender flicks an amused look at him, pitying and entertained all at once. He doesn't respond. A gaggle of girls crash into the bar, demanding shots and the bartender's eyes slide away from him.  
  
The special is some bizarre cocktail of tequila and sweet juice and he makes a disgusted face and grunts out a 'tch'. The girl next to him chuckles and he looks her way. Her silver sneakers catch his attention, glinting in the club light. She's wearing shorts and a tank top - her tattoos down her forearms catch his eye, but only for a moment as he continues gazing at the rest of her. She's very short, shorter than him, even. She looks to be Chinese, her pale skin ghostly in the lighting. She's got moles on her neck and near her mouth. She's still laughing, but when he catches her eye she stops, though her expression doesn't stop looking any more devilish.  
  
_Like a robot_  
  
_I'm frozen when you're in the room_  
  
_As your spell_  
  
_Flies past me_  
  
_I've had courage but it all fell through_  
  
She opens her mouth like she's going to say something, then her whole body tenses like a taut wire and she looks sharply at the DJ. Caught on her gaze, he does the same, anticipating some sort of physical threat until she smiles - and every piece of an exalted joy falls into place in her being. She glances back at him, for a millisecond, a question in her eyes like _well, don't waste my time - are you coming?_  
  
He blinks, and she's gone.  
  
_All I dream_  
  
_Is your smile forever_  
  
_I could be_  
  
_More than the face of a stranger_  
  
—  
  
She senses it coming and convulses out of her chair, pulsates into the middle of the dance floor and her friends scream, greeting her, welcoming her. At the end of stranger, the beat drops, the instrumental parts and planets align, she howls and she is a conflagration of nerve and sinew. She is everyone, everyone is her; the dance floor is a pyre. Let me exalt. Let me dance. Let me

  
  
_go_

 

  
   
She is dancing; she cannot remember a time when she was not, and the electric current of the song hits her in between the ribs until she is thrumming, her muscles aching to move faster, smoother, better.  
  
—  
  
He eventually finds her with his eyes when the second chorus descends, the song hitting its high note. Unconsciously he puts down the drink and is pulled to her, tranced. She is dancing, moving, reckless and wild, more alive than anything he's ever seen. He's eerily reminded of a Bacchanal, looking at her. He dances without looking at anyone else, just trying to keep up with her; but it's sluggish and sloppy, his muscles groaning to keep up with her pace. He closes his eyes.  
  
He loses himself on the floor, sound and illumination and alcohol fuzzing together.  
  
—  
  
After many songs of pure sensation, she finally opens her eyes and finds the face of the handsome stranger not too far from her. The songs have progressively gotten worse, as the DJs switch, so she twirls out of the crowd and gets a water. She watches him from afar. His eyes are closed and she unabashedly checks him out as he dances. She respects that he isn't dancing like a lot of the club guys; awkwardly, or grinding up against some poor girl without asking her for permission.  
  
She checks her phone and curses under her breath. She'd waited too long - just enough, she knows, but clubbing time isn't merciful, and it's already late enough considering term starts soon. She texts her friends: _one last song, then we should grab something to eat?_ and they all agree.  
  
She crosses her fingers for a good one, and the DJ, thank God, obliges.

  
  
_I'm such a fool to have ya_  
  
_Can never pale against ya_  
  
—  
  
_I'm digging deeper but it just_  
  
_Don't_  
  
_Feel_  
  
_The_  
  
_Same_  
  
His legs ache, he's sweat through his entire shirt and he smells like bad commercial fog, but he feels distinctly alive. He tells himself it's the last one, though - the adrenaline is weaning in favor of his discomfort of being surrounded by so many people. He turns around as someone pushes up against him, and to his surprise - it's her.  
  
She flashes him a wicked slash of mouth and starts to dance. He gathers his composure after one heart-stopping moment and faces her as they dance together for one final song. She never comes too close.  
  
—  
  
She and her friends pour out onto the pavement laughing, out of breath, and someone's asking yo what's there to eat? And someone's already Googling. She and Isabela lean against a wall. Isabela's already turning to her, smirking, until she notices something behind her.  
  
May says, "Bela? What-" as she turns around, and looks up at him - the guy from the club. He's even more handsome up close, if that's possible. His face is shiny with sweat, a pair to her own. _He probably looks better. I'm a mess._ She smooths over her hair with one hand and smiles.  
  
"We've got to stop running into each other like this," she says.  
  
He chuckles, and then coughs to cover it up. The overall effect is adorable and she surveys him with more interest - _who is this guy?_  
  
Isabela behind her makes a little shocked noise, then a purr and May shoots her a look. Isabela's eyes are twin sparks, egging her on, if they're not devouring how he looks in those pants that leave little to the imagination, but just enough.  
  
"I-" he starts, then covers his mouth with a fist, "You are a remarkable dancer."  
  
"Thank you," she replies, "You're not too bad yourself."  
  
Then she sticks out a hand and says, "Hi. I'm Hawke. May Hawke, but everyone calls me Hawke."  
  
—  
  
"Fenris." he says, then says a little regretfully, "I apologize, I don't - I don't really shake hands."  
  
She drops it without any appearance of offense, shrugging.  
  
"You alone?" She asks. He nods. She seems to be mulling something over, and opens her mouth to say something -  
  
—  
  
"HAWKE! BELA! If you don't haul ass right now, this cab is leaving with or without you, babe!" A voice shouts. She looks over, irritated. There's a taxi on the curb and her mouth drops a little open. She looks at Fenris, expression apologetic. She's then dragged away by Isabela, murmuring in her ear, "I'm starving, and we cannot afford our own cab fare, even if he is delicious as hell-" as they pile into the taxi.  
  
Then Isabela yells out of a rolled-down cab window, "Sorry, pretty boy! She's SINGLE THOUGH-" until she's yanked away with a yelp.  
  
—  
  
He goes back to his empty apartment until he realizes he didn't even get to see his client, and he laughs to and at himself.  
  
He wonders what she was going to say.


	2. inevitable hangover

She places the cancer stick in between her lips, breathes in her analgesic deep. Her left hand's steadying her, gripping the bar, as she balances herself carefully; her knees bent, soles of her sneakers pressed against the perpendicular railings. She loves doing this on the balcony, and Isabela one day jokes that she'll fall but she never does.  
  
She exhales out a plume of smoke. It's post-dance despair, the sun a hint around the horizon. The streets under her are deserted, although there's hints of laughter here and there; people coming home drunken and happy. More often there are police sirens.  
  
Her hair smells of a panoply of colognes, perfumes and spirits; she needs to take a shower. She clicks her phone screen alight instead and checks the messages.  
  
After a glance, she clicks it off.

\--  
  
Isabela comes up behind her. She doesn't touch her, just stands there for a moment, surveying the crooked back of her best friend. She doesn't say anything.  
  
"I'll come in a minute," May murmurs.  
  
"You have to stop doing this to yourself," Isabela wants to say but doesn't. Bleeding hearts are just an open wound, she told herself long ago.  
  
They tried quitting smoking together a while back. It hadn't taken, and she'd licked nicotine off her nails before the week was even over. May had lasted longer; six months and here she is smoking again when Isabela knows the story of why she won't (wouldn't?) anymore.  
  
The both of them destroy themselves any variety of ways, disintegrating with the slowness of a city burning. They're pyre-addicted, and they stand by each other's flames and smile and offer a cigarette. That is the agreement. That is the whole point. Isabela thinks to herself.  
  
"You need a stop sign, _mishti_ , not someone like me," Isabela had said to her one day. It was nonsense, but it was nonsense that had made sense to her at the time. They'd both been slightly drunk.  
  
"Yeah? So do you, _da jie_ ," she'd replied. "So I guess we're both shit out of luck."  
  
—  
  
Hawke wakes up the next morning with the taste of alcohol still in her mouth and her fingers still trying to decide whether the sensation in them was just tingly or actually worrying. She settles for the former and gets up, the back of her hand raising to wipe at her mouth, stumbling out of bed in a shirt and boxers.  
  
She scratches her side as she stumbles into the kitchen and gets a pot of coffee on for her and Isabela, who's still sound asleep. May then presses her forehead onto the cool yet unforgivingly hard countertop and mutters a few unmentionable words in Cantonese, then "Ughgblfrur."  
  
Eventually, she settles onto the table in the middle of the kitchen, cradling a mug Varric had bought her for her birthday; one that quotes Shakespeare. The words, when she tries to read them out of boredom, are swimming. She gives up and just drinks until Isabela wakes up, swears in Hindi, Punjabi and English, and then wanders out in search of "that stuff that smells heavenly".  
  
She grins lazily at Isabela when she finally sits down across her. 'Bela's usually more hungover than her, most mornings when they do this, so it's up to her to make most of the conversation.  
  
"Good morning, hedonist," May starts, though her pronunciation of hedonist wavers. Isabela responds in a truly inspiring series of grunts, swallowing a few gulps of coffee until she rouses properly.  
  
"Morning," she manages, then perks up immediately as if she's remembered something. May raises her eyebrows at this miraculous turn of events. "I was going to ask you something last night, something important."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What's the story with that guy you met?"  
  
"We had one dance." May shrugs.  
  
"Hawke, he was... _mmm_. That taut, controlled body. His skin." Isabela's voice dissolves into a tone May's heard a lot before, one of uncontrollably debauched, if imaginary, sin. May laughs, only a fraction of it modesty and shock. Most of it is just amusement at this point.  
  
"He should've had a better look at you instead, 'Bela," she replies. "You would've shown him a better time. I didn't even get his number."  
  
Isabela groans. "I wouldn't have dragged you away if I'd known that. I feel terrible! Utterly shamed. A complete failure of a wingwoman."  
  
May continues laughing. "Right. Mmhmm. Don't worry about it, Isabela. He was way too handsome for someone like me."  
  
"Hawke..."  
  
"Isabela...c'mon. I'm not saying that in a super-insecure way, I just mean it objectively."  
  
"Hawke."  
  
May waves it away dismissively, with an actual wave of her hand. "Anyway, Bela, I'll probably never see him again."  
  
"Oh, darling. I can always make it up to you, you know," Isabela says sultrily.  
  
"Mm. You can start by making more coffee."  
  
"Sexual favors have fallen out of currency in our modern world. And it is a bloody _travesty_ ," Isabela says. "I ought to file a complaint."  
  
Hawke laughs again. Isabela smiles, a secret smile, when she's making another pot of coffee. A good morning, then.  
  
—  
  
bethany: !!! what's this i hear about a guy at a club?  
jie  
jieeeeeee  
jie wake up  
  
may: you and bela need to s t o p  
  
bethany: never  
so  
who is he???  
  
may: why is everyone so invested in my love life  
have i suddenly become a romcom protagonist  
and all my friends and family think that their lives revolve around me  
  
bethany: wow  
no u weirdo  
stop watching so much american tv  
i just want to hear about * you *  
and incidentally a very handsome guy  
  
may: meimei  
c'mon  
there isn't much to say  
he was good looking  
i left before we exchanged contacts  
the end  
  
bethany: aw  
mum keeps asking me whether you've met anyone  
  
may: she can whatsapp me herself  
w/e  
hows singapore  
  
bethany: really hot! we all miss you like crazy  
  
may: i miss you too  
  
bethany: school starts up again in a couple days, right?  
are you excited? i wish i was there with you.  
  
may: it's my last year  
it'll probably be quiet and boring  
  
bethany: with you around? :p!  
  
may: 你可以闭嘴了???  
  
bethany: ha ha ha ha ha

may: you are the worst  
  
—  
  
**SEVERAL DAYS LATER**  
  
She's waiting at Student Life for one of them to finally find a pen for her to sign the event permission slip. She rolls her eyes at these, all emergency contacts and medical disclaimers, but they're a necessary evil. She's signing up for a free tour of Pike Place Market that's going on today - usually these tours are for new students, but she'd promised Merrill she'd come. She likes Pike Place Market, anyway, even if it's a big Seattle tourist thing.  
  
The redheaded girl at Student Life gives it to her and she signs it quickly and hands it back. She's looking at her phone when she leaves and accidentally brushes too close with the other person coming in - she mutters an apology and keeps walking.  
  
—  
  
He's staring at the map when he feels an unexpected touch near his elbow - he hears a quick "Sorry" and the other person's gone. He shakes off his irritation and continues his self-guided tour (he'd skipped orientation on account of a hangover). When he reaches Student Life and gives them his student ID number, the girl at the counter's face drops into sympathy and shock - just like every other admin he's met. Then she gives him the where-are-advisors talk, though the pity doesn't leak from her eyes.  
  
"Also, Counseling Services are-"  
  
He cuts her off. " _I'm fine_. Thank you."  
  
He leaves the building wanting to cut off someone's head with a greatsword.  
  
—  
  
isabela: where are you  
i'm starving  
  
may: you just want to take advantage of my charity  
  
isabela: uh, yes?  
that was never in question, darling.  
besides, you know, i don't go here.  
i think they might not take as kindly to me stealing, as say, a student who pays their tuition fees.  
  
may: did that ever stop you before?  
  
isabela: hey i promised i would stop this year!  
i keep my promises. occasionally.  
  
may: mmHMM.  
  
—  
  
His sponsor at WARN wants weekly reports on his progress. The phone in his hand is full of messages - kind, well-intentioned - messages. But they feel intrusive all the same. It's been a year and he's survived perfectly well on his own.  
  
On his desk, a million pamphlets about his new school stand out. Moving on, letting go.  
  
Never his strong suit.  
  
He glances briefly at the Pike Place Market event form when he's sorting the pile into trash or binders and quickly tosses it. He's seen the city without having to go to one of its biggest tourist traps.  
  
—  
  
_I could be_  
_More than a face of a stranger_  
  
Isabela pulls at her earbuds when they're on the bus ride home from eating, and May removes both and looks at her quizzically.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You've been listening to that song repeatedly for the last few days."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So, why?"  
  
"I heard it at the club last weekend. I liked it." Hawke shrugs. She does this sometimes; plays a song until it's corroded in her head. Something about this one settles into her brain like rust after rain, inevitable and long-term.  
  
"Mishti, darling. If I have to hear that song one more time..." Isabela mimes a dagger across her throat.  
  
"Okay, okay."  
  
—  
  
_And nobody, nobody, nobody, nobody_  
_Has to know that you care_  
_That I'm_  
_Somebody, somebody, somebody_  
_Something more than thin air_  
  
In a dingy, one-room apartment somewhere near Capitol Hill, Fenris dances. He twists and turns with his eyes closed, trying to replicate a feeling that only came to him in a nightclub down the University District.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARN: Washington Anti-trafficking Response Network  
> E-mail: warntrafficking@yahoo.com  
> 24-hour Victim Assistance: 206-245-0782  
> Signs of human trafficking can include:  
> -"Debt" to employer  
> -Abusive employment situations  
> -People locked inside places of employment  
> -Employer in possession of all the employee's documents
> 
> Please call National Human Trafficking Resource Center 24-Hour Hotline  
> 1.888.3737.888  
> OR  
> Washington Anti-Trafficking Response Network Victim Assistance Line  
> 206.245.0782  
> If you suspect trafficking is occurring near you.  
> \--
> 
> mishti - East Indian term of endearment, means sweet.
> 
> Mandarin hanyupinying:  
> da jie - big sister.  
> jie - older sister.  
> meimei - younger sister.


	3. push, pull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: heavy references to non/con, panic attack, anxiety, PTSD in this chapter's first half

She wakes up hard from a nightmare, gasping for air. Her immediate thought is to go for her phone and shine the light. Her vision adjusts. She's alone. There's no one else in the room.

"Everything's fine," she mutters to herself. "Everything's fine. _Bu yao xiang le. Bu yao xiang..._ "

—

_You're safe._

He thinks to himself, _You're never safe_ , but stops breathing like his lungs will collapse any second. He'd shot up like a jack knife, his eyes wide, his hand already closing around a heart. Tonight, he feels, is one of those nights, where he stops functioning and is made of pure sensation and memory. An ache already setting in his bones.

His hand steady, he pours himself water from his filtered jug on the counter. He tries to keep moving.

He sits at his kitchen table, cramped up against a wall and wobbly without a paper underneath one leg. He takes out his laptop - beaten up, used, and keys sticking in some places - and brings up a webpage.

Indistinct memories flurry in his head, heavy as cumulonimbus clouds.

_"Paki-hinto." The word scraping the back of his throat. "Paki-"_

_"Magkano?" A query seared onto his brain. A word he always recognizes. Sometimes the accent is British, Australian, Japanese, Hong Kong or mainland thick as kaya. A lot of them are American. Hear one hear them all - from basement to shack to hotel room. "How much? Mura?"_

_"Ilan?"_

_The memory of his sister pressed close to his mother's arms, the floor covered with cut hair, all of them packed into the back of a truck, rattling on the way to Cebu. He can smell shit, sweat and satti in the wind._

_"Ayaw ko, paki-"_

He slams his laptop shut. He breathes. He is in control. He is not -

"Punyeta," he spits. _There is heat saturating him all over, and it is the heat of Manila at 6 pm, midday. The sun boring down on his skull to the point where his hair feels like it's burning off his scalp and sweat has plastered all over his torso. He is kicking up dust, carding his hand over his eyes and the light feels so foreign, it hurts-_

_There's yelling in his mind, of a motorcycle roaring off into the distance, the sight of pesos or dollars or yen changing hands, make it stop, paki-hinto-_

He slams his fist down on the table, the thump grounding him. He is here. Seattle, not in Manila, or Cebu, or Sabah. Seattle with its cold rains and its bright light when the clouds part, he is here, and no one is going to rattle the door and shout _kasunod_.

_You're safe._

He gets out the flash cards from Liara at WARN. He does this for hours, every night, all nights; he still reads and writes at a fifth grade level but he tries, mouths the words and pronounces them, forces them out from his lips. Liara had been astonished at his fluency when they'd talked, something he'd had from - from before, but the first word he'd been asked to read and his voice had shook like a fucking _gago_ and his vision swam.

He hates it. Someone takes notes for him in the university classes and they're asking him to take it slow, to not push too hard, just take one class and you're doing much better than anyone we've ever had but he sees all the people around him his age and they are enlightened and he is a child.

"S-sol...i...tary."

"Minor."

"Ill-illi-illum-"

He will get better. He is getting better. He has to.

Every word is a tightrope and he concentrates on reaching the other side, waiting, inevitably, for the fall.

—

Liara: Fenris?

Fenris: hello

Liara: R u ok?

Fenris: yes

Liara: Call me soon?

Fenris: ...

He does not send anything. He was so proud of himself the first time he could do it, send a text and see his words reflected at him but now the letters feel like chokeholds. He does not know what to say to her. None of it is her burden, nor anyone's but his own; the blood, the brand, all of it.

—

He thinks of the club and the girl. None of it fits, all of it jarring, the crush of bodies a pit of vipers to him but then there was her, all intent translating through nerve and muscle movement and she was the first person who'd looked at him like he was normal. Just another guy on the town she could joke and tease and dance with.

 _You are projecting needlessly_ , he thinks. _She was just a stranger you will never see again._

Still, he dances.

—

His classes are a daze. The lectures are insightful but the words on the screen... His note taker kindly records the lectures on Fenris' phone and tells him to listen over and over again, if that helps. Fenris thanks him - his name is Max. He gives Fenris a sad smile before disappearing into the dorms.

Fenris, after his last class, stands in the campus courtyard and looks skyward. It is clear today, he notes, the sign of Seattle spring - and overwhelmingly bright, the sun's reflection in the puddles melting his pupils. He winces and looks away and watches everyone else stream out of the campus. He can hear the sound of laughter and rush hour, and the faint strains of pop music leaking from someone's headphones. He is standing in the sun, and he has finished his first week of school, and he is alive and free. The bad night peels off from his shoulders like a thin veil, falling into the Puget Sound. Gradually, tentatively, his mouth quirks upward. It is Friday.

Just then, someone presses a flyer into his hand and speeds off, calling out to someone. Thankfully, flyers usually don't reach above the threshold of his vocabulary, so he reads the words with ease.

_dance party - neighbours - broadway -_

He wonders, for a moment, whether she will be there, then dismisses the thought.

Still. He clutches the flyer, fighting the urge to just go home and practice more words. He could dance there.

—

The club is another roar of sound, and he's beginning to think they're all the same underneath; the neon trappings, the fog, the chalkboard announcing drink specials. Everyone is young and impossibly wild-looking, beautiful, grinning and sloshing their drinks from their cups.

_Live in the present, that gift is for the gifted_  
_This what you came, this what you came for_  
_You get what you buy, this what you paid for_  
_So make sure the stars is what you aim for_  
_Make mistakes though_

He weaves his way through the crowd, mouth dry in want for a Riesling but settling for a - what's the special? - flavored vodka. He nearly tosses the drink over his shoulder but gulps it down anyway, the alcohol a welcome deterrent to the mass of strangers behind him. The music pounds until it reverberates in his chest and he's swallowing down the colored liquid, all his senses overloaded, and he swings around to stare at the dance floor of so many different people grinning and dancing. He wants to join them but he waits for the alcohol to buzz him in, tipping everything sideways so he can lose himself.

 _I never worry, life is a journey_  
_I just wanna enjoy the ride_  
_What is the hurry? It's pretty early_  
_It's ok, we'll take our time_

 _The night is still young_  
_The night is still young_  
_The night is still young_  
_And so are we_

There's a shift in the crowd, he watches, as they part in the center for a bunch of shrieking, laughing people, and he watches as one of them lifts their hands to the floodlights-

He freezes.

It's her. Dressed in a denim vest, ripped jeans and as-ever that Cheshire smile he remembers so clearly, holding hands with the Indian woman he remembers from the last, and he finishes his drink in one gulp and watches her.

_The night is still young_

Then the crowd starts closing in and he loses sight of her face. Instinctively, he wanders away from the bar, braves the dance floor, trying to fit through the gaps and find her -

_How dare we sit quietly_

_The night is still young_

_And watch the world pass us by_

_How dare we sit quietly  
_

He muscles his way through into the middle. He sees her friend gyrating impressively, and when she sees him she gives him a wink before a partner blocks her from view. He arches an eyebrow and realizes he's standing in the midst of a writhing, sweaty, utterly ecstatic class of '19, and someone's yelling at him to **dance, just dance, dude!** and he shrugs and closes his eyes, the alcohol kicking him in, his brain clicking into blurriness.

_The night is still young_

He moves.

—

 _[It's been a long time since I came around](https://youtu.be/X9YMU0WeBwU?t=48s)_  
_Been a long time but I'm back in town_  
_And this time I'm not leaving without you_

 _You taste like whiskey when you kiss me oh_  
_I'd give anything again to be your baby doll_

Exhausted, satisfied and distressingly hungry, he checks his phone. 2 a.m. His whole body is sore, his legs burn and he tells himself this is the last song when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He tenses, a stranger touching him, and turns around to snarl, when his words die in his throat.

_This time I'm not leaving without you_

"Hey," she mouths. "I remember you!" she's grinning wide, her teeth white against the club's backdrop, and up close he can see her strong jawline, her full lips, her eyes crinkling at the sides as she smiles up at him.

"I remember you as well," he says out loud, the speakers drowning him out but she's laughing and nodding like she's understood.

She cocks her head to the exit and he nods, following her through the confusing horde.

They burst through the doors, and she's laughing still, the sound of it filling the night air. They spill onto the pavement and she's running her hand through her hair. He's watching her, bemused, still intrigued.

"Fenris, right?"

"Yes. And you are Hawke."

"That I am," she says, and gives a bow, and he begins to chuckle. He suspects they are both similarly inebriated.

"My friend is giving me a hard time about you," she says, and then widens her eyes. She covers them with her hand, laughing as if she can't help it. "Oh, crap. Did I just say that out loud? Can you ignore that I just said that."

"I'm afraid not," he says, smirking. "Would you care to elaborate? Have I offended somehow?"

"Exactly the opposite, actually," she replies, her voice still breathless as her laughter tapers off. She lifts the hand from her eyes and leans against the wall, looking at the moon. "Let's just say my friend is not easily offended."

"I'll endeavor to be more offensive in the future." He says, wry, and her perpetual amused grin gets wider. Then she's staring straight at him and there's a silent beat.

"You-"

"I-"

They both stop. He feels like a fool, grappling for better words.

"You first," she says.

"Do you attend - ?"

"Ah, yeah, second year. You?"

"First."

He learns that she's a T.A. and an English major. He doesn't tell her much about his own studies, and thankfully, she doesn't pry.

At some point her friend (not the first woman who'd been with her) comes out, and after eyeing him, tries to drag her back inside. She allows herself to be dragged, but only after she programs her number into his phone and calls herself from it. He looks at her after she does it. He sees her sober a little, her confidence faltering as she says, a little awkward, "Um, well, I - it was nice to see you again," and for some reason she won't meet his eyes. She looks a little flushed.

"Same to you, Hawke," he says, his voice lowering slightly, and she flushes even more. Could she - ?

Her friend tugs on her arm, and she's already halfway to the entrance before he can finish his thought. She waves, a little helplessly, and smiles. He laughs again, the feeling of it strange but not unwelcome. He stares at her contact on his phone, right after Liara.

_May Hawke. Who are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bu yao xiang le: Stop thinking. (hanyupinying)
> 
> Filipino/Tagalog:  
> Paki-hinto: please stop.  
> Gago: Stupid/asshole. 
> 
> If you want more translations (the rest I think you can gather from context), please comment!  
> Or comment if you have feedback/constructive crit/love. Always love me some comments.


End file.
